A hand grabbed Moore's arm, startling him.
It was a sailor, wearing white web belt, holster and puttees, and with a Shore Patrol "SP" armband. Moore saw a second SP standing by the gate to Track Six.
"Let me see your orders, Mac," the Navy Shore Patrolman said.
Moore took from the lower pocket of his blouse a quarter-inch thick of mimeograph paper Rutterman had given him on the way to the station and handed it over.
"And your dog tags, Mac," the SP said.
"Slow day?" Sergeant Rutterman asked. "Or do you just like to lean on Marines?"
"What's your problem, Mac?" the SP asked, visibly surprised at what he obviously perceived to be a challenge to his authority.
"My problem, Sailor, is that I don't like you calling Marine sergeants 'Mac'"
"Then why don't you show me your orders, Sergeant?" the
SP said, as the other SP, slapping his billy club on the palm
of his hand, came up to get in on the action.
Rutterman reached in the breast pocket of his blouse and came out with a small leather folder. He held it open for the SP to read.
Moore saw that whatever Rutterman had shown the SP, it produced an immediate change of attitude.
"Sergeant," the SP said, apologetically, almost humbly, "we're just trying to do our job."
"Yeah, sure, you are," Rutterman said, dryly. "Can we go now?"
"Yeah, sure. Go ahead."
Rutterman jerked his head for Moore to pass through the gate.
"Goddamned SPs," he muttered.
"What was that you showed him?" Moore asked.
"You forget you saw that," Rutterman said. "That's not what you're supposed to do with that."
"What was it?" Moore asked.
"What was what, Sergeant?" Rutterman asked. "Didn't Sessions tell you the way to get your ass in a crack around here is to ask questions you shouldn't?"
His voice was stern, but there was a smile in his eyes.
"Right," Moore said.
Rutterman boarded the train with him, saw that he was settled in an armchair in the club car, and then offered him his hand.
"I'll give you a call tomorrow or the next day," he said. "To tell you how the paperwork is moving."
"I'll have to give you my number," Moore said.
"I've got your number," Rutterman smiled, then shook his head. "Don't forget to get off this thing in Philadelphia."
"I'll try," Moore said. "Thank you, Sergeant."
"What for?" Rutterman replied, and then walked out of the club car.
(Two)
HEADQUARTERS, FIRST MARINE DIVISION
WELLINGTON, NEW ZEALAND
0815 HOURS 16 JUNE 1942
On Sunday 14 June, when the first elements of the First Marine Division (Division Headquarters and the 5th Marines) landed at Wellington, New Zealand, from the United States, they found on hand to greet them not only the Advance Detachment, which had flown in earlier, but an officer courier from the United States, who had flown in more recently.
The officer courier went aboard the USS Millard G. Fillmore (formerly the Pacific Princess of the Pacific and Far East lines) as soon as she was tied to the wharf. He was immediately shown to the cabin of Major General Alexander A. Vandergrift, the Division Commander.
In the courier's chained-to-his wrist briefcase, in addition to the highly classified documents he had carried from the States on a AAAAAA priority, there was a business-size envelope addressed to the First Division's Deputy Commander, Brigadier General Lewis T. Harris, and marked "Personal."
Since it took a few minutes to locate the Division's Classified Documents Officer, who had to sign for the contents of the courier's briefcase, General Harris, who was in General Vandergrift's cabin at the time, got his "personal" letter before the other, more official documents were distributed.
The letter was unofficial-a "back channel communication" written by a longtime crony, a brigadier general who was assigned to Headquarters, USMC. Harris tore it open, read it, and then handed it wordlessly to General Vandergrift.
Washington, 11 June
Brig Gen Lewis T. Harris Hq, First Marine Division By Hand
Dear Lucky:
Major Jake Dillon, two officers, and six enlisted Marines are on their way to New Zealand to "coordinate Marine public relations." The Assistant Commandant is very impressed with Dillon, who used to be a Hollywood press agent. He feels he will be valuable in dealing with the more important members of the press, and making sure the Navy doesn't sit on Marine accomplishments.
He will be on TDY to Admiral Ghormley's Commander, South Pacific, Headquarters, rather than to the First Division, which takes him neatly out from under your command while he is there.
If I have to spell this out: This is the Assistant Commandant's idea, and you will have to live with it.
Regards, Tony
The Division Commander read the letter, looked at Harris, snorted, and commented, "I don't have to live with this press agent, Lucky, you do. Keep this character and his people away from me."
The First Division was already prepared to deal with the public as well as the enemy. One of the Special Staff sections of the First Marine Division was "Public Information." It was staffed with a major, a captain, a lieutenant, three sergeants, three corporals, and two privates first class. It was natural, therefore, that the question, "just what the hell is this about?" should arise in General Harris's mind.
"Aye, aye, Sir," he said.
Major Dillon, accompanied by two lieutenants, four sergeants, and two privates first class, arrived by air (priority AAA) in Wellington on Tuesday, 16 June 1942.
He presented his orders to the G-l, who as Personnel Officer for the Division, was charged with housing and feeding people on temporary duty. The G-l informed Major Dillon where he could draw tentage for the enlisted men, and in which tents he and his officers could find bunks. He told Major Dillon to get his people settled and to check back with him in the morning.
The G-l then sought audience with the Assistant Division Commander, who he suspected (correctly) would be curious to see Major Dillon's orders, which included a very interesting and unusual paragraph: 3. Marine commanders are directed to give Major Dillon access to classified information through TOP SECRET.
The G-l, who had earned the reputation of not bothering the Assistant Division Commander with petty bullshit, was granted an almost immediate audience with General Harris. After he read Major Dillon's orders, Harris inquired, "Where did you say you put this messenger from God? Get him in here right now."
This proved not to be possible. For Major Dillon and his officers were not at the Transient Officer's Quarters. Nor were they engaged in helping the enlisted men erect their tents. Indeed, according to the Quartermaster, nobody asking to draw tentage had been to see him. When the G-l somewhat nervously reported these circumstances to General Harris, the General replied, "You find that sonofabitch, Dick, and get him over here."
The G-l and members of his staff conducted a search of the area, but without success.
At 0915 the next morning, however, General Harris's sergeant reported that a Major named Dillon was in the outer office, asking if the General could spare him a minute.